


Zombie Prevention

by RavenGrey



Category: Zombies Run!
Genre: Fluff, Gender-Neutral Runner Five, Humor, Mild Sexual Content, Mutual Pining, Other, Reader-Insert, Sam's anti-zombie tattoo, Second person POV, very mild
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-25
Updated: 2014-10-25
Packaged: 2018-02-22 14:57:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2511776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RavenGrey/pseuds/RavenGrey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You weren’t supposed to see that, like, ever.” Sam stutters, actually stutters, and pulls his pants up to his belly button. He stumbles back, right into the comms desk and knocks over a cold cup of coffee.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Zombie Prevention

**Author's Note:**

> So I've never written anything from this POV so I'm a little iffy about it, but there aren't enough Sam/5 fics in the world and I thought I'd contribute. I'm pretty sure I managed to make everything gender-neutral, but if I haven't please tell me.

 

            “Sam?” You ask quietly, fiddling with your broken headset. One of the ear pieces, the soft squishy part that covers your ear and keeps your set in place, had fallen off on your latest run and now it wobbles.

            Well, it hadn’t so much fallen off; more like a fast zom had ripped your headset off and taken a bite out of it before you could put the bastard out of its misery. When you’d finally gotten it back, covered in zombie slime, you didn’t really have time to notice the uncomfortable scrape of the exposed speaker.

            You’d just stripped the slobbery material as best as you’d been able while sprinting for your life and jammed it back on your head.  The last thing you needed was a wet willy from a zombie, but it’s what you’d gotten.

            Normally you wouldn’t complain, it’s your fault after all and you take responsibility for your fuck-ups, but it’s affecting your performance as a runner so you’d come to Sam for help.

             He’s in-between runs right now and there’s no-one in the field, so you don’t feel _that_ bad about bothering him.

            You really hope he has a replacement, you’d almost rather chew your own foot off than have to tell Janine you ruined a head set.

             When you had asked he’d leveled a brilliant smile your way, the slightly crooked one that makes your stomach do weird flips and started looking through the near chaos of the comms shack.     

            “What’s up, buttercup?” Sam replies cheerfully from under his filthy desk, where’s he’s rummaging around for a new cover in a box of broken tech.

             You’ve got to admit, for someone who spends most of his time sitting, the views none too shabby. You flush a little, slightly embarrassed with yourself, and try your hardest not to stare at Sam’s pert ass.

            “Butter-cup?” You ask wryly, leaning against the doorframe and trying not to get in his way. You’d offered to help him clean the comms shack the next time there weren’t any runners out in exchange for the part you need and he’d jumped on the offer.

            “Roll with it man.” Sam laughs sheepishly and you huff quietly in amusement.  

             His pants have slipped down, just enough to expose the top of the famed zombie-repelling tattoo and your jaw drops in disbelief. A slightly hysterical laugh bubbles up in your throat, but you push it down.

             “You know that I will be forever indebted to you if you manage to pull this off,” You say, running your thumb along the battered band of your comm and smoothing down the tattered edge of the flower sticker Molly had stuck on at least a month ago.

            “Of course.” Sam says in a lofty tone, still rummaging through the dusty piles. You’re pretty sure he’s smiling and just the thought of it makes your stomach squiggle delightedly. You love his smile.

             You’re pretty sure you love him, but that’s neither here nor there or anywhere really.

            “And that you will have my permanent gratitude and I’ll owe you big time if you can pull this off.” You continue, lips twitching as you fight down a smile.

             There’s not all that much to smile about during the zombie apocalypse, what with the dead, rotting family members and friends shambling about and the general lack of food, but your face is trying to tell you otherwise.

             It does that a lot when you’re with Sam. It’s incredibly inconvenient and not at all professional.

             You wish your face would behave itself, but it hasn’t since Sam had stayed up all night to guide you home in the dark. With zombies breathing down your neck and what could be your last breaths burning in your lungs, Sam had gotten you home.

            His shaky, warm smile had been the best thing you’d ever seen when you’d staggered through the gates and you’ll remember the look on his face for the rest of your life. Think of it in your worst moments when your legs feel like they’re going to give out and your breaths come in shallow gasps.

            “I like where this is going, continue.” Sam grins and your lips curve up despite your best efforts at keeping your poker face on.

            “Is that a tattoo of Chuck Norris on your ass-cheek?” You inquire bluntly, a hip cocked against the door while you watch him go tense.

            There’s a loud, almost comical ‘thunk’ and then a very dignified yelp as Sam tries to frantically pull his pants up _and_ get out from under the table. He’s covered in dust and his hair is sticking up in weird places and he looks so utterly _mortified_ that you just can’t help yourself.

            The giggle, and let’s be honest, it is a giggle, rises in your throat and blurts out before you can stop it.  You reach out and fix Sam’s messy hair while he's still shocked. Your hand drops back to your side with a quiet ‘pap’ and you watch Sam’s eyes widen while he pats frantically at his hair.

            “You weren’t supposed to see that, like, _ever_.” Sam stutters, actually stutters, and pulls his pants up to his belly button. He stumbles back, right into the comms desk and knocks over a cold cup of coffee.

             You swear quietly, a bitten of grunt that your mama would have smacked you for, and lunge forward. You snag Sam’s sweater out of his chair and throw it over the spill before it can soak anything technological.

             You crouch down, balanced neatly on the balls of your feet while Sam’s sweater soaks up the majority of the mess and your block the mess of wires under the desk with your thighs.

            “I did though,” You point out archly; cheeks aching from how hard you’re smiling even though coffee is soaking the tops of your thighs “And you look like a grandpa.” You add, grimacing at the steady drip of cold coffee.

            You feel a pang of sadness at the waste of precious coffee but licking it off your fingers seems a little undignified.

            “Well, you weren’t _supposed_ to and dangnabbit you should respect your elders.” Sam huffs, red in the face as he bends down to help you mop up the coffee with a tattered blanket.

             Your knees bump and the small touch sends a thrill through you. The smile that slips over your lips is almost shy and you turn your face away so Sam can’t see it. And because you’re looking the other way, you miss the sweet smile that brightens Sam’s face.

            You flick sticky coffee from your fingers and grimace at Sam’s caffeinated sweater. “I’ll clean it, first chance I get.”

            “Nah, don’t worry about it,” he laughs, rubbing the back of his neck “my fault really.”

             You open your mouth to object but he shushes you, smooshing your lips together and grinning at the look on your face.

            You huff out through your nose and give him you best “freakin’ really?” look. He pulls his hand away almost nervously even though he’s beaming.

            “I’m kinda surprised I still have a hand, and on that happy note, I’m gonna go get some water.” He chirps, trying to rise from his crouch and only failing a little. His arms windmill and you laugh a little and steady the thing closest to you.

            Which just so happens to be Sam’s hip. It fits almost perfectly in your palm and you can feel Sam’s heat through his faded jeans. Your face burns and Sam goes pink under his freckles. You look up, still on your knees, and try not to die of embarrassment.

             That’d be one helluva way to go, considering where you are.

            You jerk your hand away; still looking up into Sam’s shocked face. Your quiet, sharp intake of breath is loud in the shack and Sam’s pupils dilate the more he looks at you.

             “Water. I’m water. Now. I’m water now and I have to go.” Sam splutters and makes a break for it. You groan and let your head thunk against the edge of the desk. Your heart is beating hard and you’re pretty sure you look like a tomato.

            The way Sam had looked at you makes you feel deliciously warm and you scrub at your cheeks irritably. Sam comes back a few minutes later with a partially full bucket of water, a plastic bag and the most awkward look on his face that you’ve seen in a while.

            “We don’t have to talk about it?” You offer, voice a little rough. You clear your throat quietly and reach for the bucket of water and the rags. Your fingers brush when you take the bucket and a mixture of relief and disappointment flickers over Sam’s face.

            “Thanks 5.” Sam chuckles awkwardly, kneeling about a foot away from you. He drops his sweater into the bag and tosses it off to the side.

            “Any time.” You bump his shoulder with yours and he gives you a sly look from under his lashes while you scrub at the sticky mess. It shouldn’t take long to clean up and you’re looking forward to a shower, however cold it may be.  
            “Hey Five?” Sam asks after a few minutes of awkward silence.

            You cock your head to the side, curious about the uncertainty in Sam’s voice. “Yep?” you pop the ‘p’ and ring out your rag.

            “You have any tattoos? And I’m asking in a totally platonic way, not trying to make this weird at all. Well, weirder.”

            “I wasn’t supposed to see that.” You smirk back, tossing your rag into the bucket and sitting cross-legged on the dirty floor while Sam does the same and looks at you eagerly.

            “But you did and it’s only fair, I mean, if you’ve got one that is.” Sam grins, sitting with his feet together. His jeans are ripped at both knees and his band-shirt is threadbare and worn. It’s very hipster-sheik and you’re struck with the urge to pet the little scar on Sam’s knee.

            “As my mama used to say, tough titties.” You laugh, wiping your hands on your running pants and wrinkling your nose when you just make them stickier. You dip them into the bucket of dirty water and then wipe them on your jacket.

            “Did your mum really say that?” Sam asks incredulously, shoulders shaking with laughter.

            “She did.” You admit with a grin and say ‘titties’ again just to watch Sam wheeze with laugher.

            “Aw come on 5, you’ve seen mine, the least you can do is show me yours.” Sam whines, still hiccupping with laughter and twiddling a leaf. His hands are thin and surprisingly elegant and you want very much to hold them.

            “That came out really sexual and that was _not_ my goal.” Sam snorts, rubbing at the back of his neck and looking at you with open mirth.

            “Sureeee it wasn’t. And I’ve only seen the top of yours. It’s hardly fair that you get to see all of mine.” You’re flirting, you realize with a little jolt and it makes you surprisingly nervous.

            “So you _do_ have a tat,” Sam crows, leaning in and staring at you excitedly. He’s a ball of bouncing excitement and your face is doing that thing where it doesn’t listen to you and you’re smiling with your entire, treacherous face.

            “I do.” You admit, enjoying the blatant delight on Sam’s face. Sam pulls a box onto his lap and riffles through it, hazel eyes locked on your face so intently that you can feel your ears start to burn.

            He finds a broken Hello Kitty headset after some searching, splattered with either blood or marmite, and wiggles the cover off and hands it to you. It’s hot pink and clashes with the grey of your headset but the megawatt smile you give Sam is genuine.

            “You,” Sam tosses it to you and you cradle it like the treasure it is “are literally my hero.”

            You slide it into place and then slip your comm around your neck. A knot of tension unwinds in your gut and you reach up to double-check that it’s still there.

            “That’s a given.” Sam chuckles, shoving the box back under the desk and looking at you expectantly. “You going to tell me where your tattoo is? I bet it’s like, the most badass thing I’ve _ever_ seen and it’s gonna blow my mind on at least 8 different levels.”

            You roll your shoulders leisurely and get to your feet with the help of the desk. You nab Sam’s sweater by the handle on your way out, leaving Sam’s sad, puppy-dog face behind you.     

             “Play your cards right and you just might find out.” You call over your shoulder, very aware of your flushed face and the way he absolutely lights up.

 


End file.
